some poems are made to rhyme
with each and every line
they bounce and jump along
practically a song

but other poems don’t bother with such restraints
they are the freed convict
dressed in orange
running about in the field just outside the prison gates
soon dressed in nothing
the warmth of the sun on his naked body
feels so nice that he thinks for a moment
it’s a shame so few people do this

but the alarms eventually sound
they pin him to the ground
they bring him back inside
through a hole he sees the sky